


a cloud short of heaven

by lost_decade



Category: Formula E RPF, Motorsport RPF
Genre: Blow Jobs, European Le Mans Series, Hand Jobs, Just a little bit of fun, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, brief allusions to Jeandré
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-19
Updated: 2018-12-19
Packaged: 2019-09-22 21:32:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17067527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lost_decade/pseuds/lost_decade
Summary: “Do you think he knows,” Andrea had whispered from his place at Jev’s side at the table, nudging him now when he’s slow to respond. Jev throws him a sideways glance; there’s something playful in Andrea’s expression, a combination of the wine they’ve had with the meal or the high of being champions perhaps, or maybe just the exhilaration of knowing he gets to go home to be with his girlfriend now the season is done.





	a cloud short of heaven

**Author's Note:**

> Total PWP, set at the ELMS awards in Portimão back in October. 
> 
> Title from All Nighter by Elastica.

If Roman knows then he hasn’t said anything, which would indicate he either genuinely isn’t bothered or that he’s come to the conclusion that the harmony of the team is important enough to not disrupt it with some kind of awkward discussion. It creates a balance anyway, an ease and instinct that makes Jev feel utterly in sync with his compatriot, a lingering pat on the back during a driver change, the warmth of Andrea’s body still present even after he’s vacated the seat.  
  
“Do you think he knows,” Andrea had whispered from his place at Jev’s side at the table, nudging him now when he’s slow to respond. Jev throws him a sideways glance; there’s something playful in Andrea’s expression, a combination of the wine they’ve had with the meal or the high of being champions perhaps, or maybe just the exhilaration of knowing he gets to go home to be with his girlfriend now the season is done. Jev doesn’t have the same luxury, never entirely sure of where André is and always a little unsettled by the fact, feeling slightly foolish the times he’s messaged him _hey I’m in Monaco if you’re around_ \- only for André to respond that he’s in fucking Laguna Seca or somewhere, the occasional aesthetic coffee shop insta stories and sunsets doing nothing to pin him anywhere that Jean-Éric could pretend to have coincidentally decided to visit. He leans his shoulder against Andrea’s, glancing over at Rusinov at the other end of the table, deep in conversation with someone who's name Jev thinks he probably ought to remember.  
  
“I don’t think he knows,” Jev finally replies, letting his hand slide up Andrea’s thigh beneath the table. “Except you were a bit loud last night, he might have been jerking off with a glass pressed up against the wall.”  
  
Andrea looks suitably scandalised, burying his head against Jev’s neck and giggling, spreading his thighs to Jev’s touch. Jean-Éric tries to neutralise his own expression when Roman looks up at their display, rolling his eyes in a way that makes Jean-Éric think he probably does know after all. It's not as if Roman himself is subtle about his own sexual exploits, Jev thinks, trying and failing not to let a frown of disapproval pass over his brow. That the Russian primarily chooses to fuck grid girls doesn't give him any kind of upper hand based purely on the fact that they're female. What does it matter anyway, the season is done and the warmth of Andrea beside him is enough to make him forget even the niggling annoyance of the race earlier in the day, he isn’t going to spend the entire evening mulling over track limits in his head and worrying about Roman when there are much more fun ways to pass the night.  
  
Andrea picks up one of the bottles of tawny port that’s been placed on the table following the meal, filling their glasses as Jev rubs the tip of one finger up the inside seam of his suit trousers. He can’t help but snort when Andrea suddenly makes a cat noise, raises the bottle and rubs his finger over the label, saying “Porti-meow, get it?” and causing a rush of affection to make his stomach feel a little warm. Andrea is a touch of pure, uncomplicated sunshine in Jean-Éric’s life in a way that very few of his teammates have been. It’s nice and it also takes his mind off André and the indefinable pull that had led to a single kiss at the side of the pool on their last night in Mykonos that Jean-Éric is now not even entirely sure was just a product of his imagination and too much Ouzo or not, given how André has never referenced it since.

  
Somewhat fortuitously there’s a break between the dinner and the trophy presentations, not a lengthy one but enough time that Jean-Éric can excuse himself on the pretence of going for a smoke, pausing for a moment outside the door to the grand hotel ballroom as he waits for Andrea to follow him. The low-lit bathrooms are thankfully empty and it’s easy to steer Andrea into one of the cubicles, pressing him back against the door and leaning in to kiss him, running his fingers through his hair and nipping at his lips hungrily, sighing at the way his teammate yields to him. It's what they both need: easy, no mixed signals or tangled emotions. Jev murmurs the filthiest things he can think of, low against Andrea’s jaw as he works his belt open, licking at his neck as he slides his suit trousers and underwear down to mid-thigh in one smooth motion, wrapping his hand around Andrea’s erection, delighting in the shift and full-body tremor it prompts.  
  
“You have really pretty eyes,” Jean-Éric says admiringly when he pulls back. They are lovely, big and pale, blue-grey like surf on the shore. He holds Andrea’s gaze, the Frenchman looking back at him with a soft smile.  
  
“You have a really pretty mouth,” Andrea presses his thumb to Jev’s lips, rubbing over his bottom lip before pushing the tip into his mouth, Jev licking at it greedily. He feels heady with lust, desperate for it as he gets gracefully to his knees, rubbing his cheek against Andrea’s straining cock before grasping it and sliding his palm up the length and over the head, gathering pre-come in his palm. Jean-Éric rocks back on his knees, licking his hand clean and looking up to catch Andrea’s eye, sensing more than seeing the twitch of his cock.  
  
“Fuck, Jev, we don't have long.”

It is regrettably a point, enough so that Jev wastes no further precious seconds, grasping Andrea’s hip with one hand and his cock with the other, licking up the length of him before taking him into his mouth properly, curling his tongue around the shaft and hollowing his cheeks as he moves his head up and down, Andrea filling his mouth with the musky taste of pre-come. He’s mindful of the fact that he can’t wreck his suit here, that they’ve got to go up onto the stage in probably less than ten minutes, the urgency spurring him on to shuffle a little closer in a futile attempt to try and rub his own dick against Andrea’s shin.  
  
Andrea bites back a moan, squeezing at Jev’s shoulders and shifting his hips to fuck deeper into his mouth, reaching down to touch Jev’s throat and grip tightly for a moment. It's enough to make Jev choke a little, saliva slickening his beard a bit. He pulls off, taking a stuttering breath and working Andrea with his hand, praying that no one comes in to the bathrooms because there's no fucking way it wouldn't be obvious what's going on in the locked cubicle. Jean-Éric reaches down to unzip his own trousers, frantically trying to get his brain to engage enough to figure out how he's going to not get his clothes filthy here. “Oh fuck,” Andrea moans, “Jev. Jev, can I come on your face?”  
  
Jev would like to say this is a bad idea but instead he knocks Andrea's hand away, replacing it with his own, the rhythm of his hand on Andrea matching the movement of his other hand on himself. Andrea's knees are trembling, his grip on Jev's hair too tight for comfort. They have to be on the stage, fuck, he thinks as he stops jerking Andrea's dick and instead concentrates on rubbing his thumb methodically over the sensitive area on the underside just below the crown, flinching as Andrea moans his name loudly.

“Yeah,” Jev murmurs, “come on, come for me,” closing his eyes, feeling heady from the meal and the wine, aching still from the race and swimming in the arousal that being on his knees like this for someone always brings him.

Andrea makes a sound low in the back of his throat, his head cracking back against the wall hard enough to hurt as hot spurts of come hit Jean-Éric’s cheek. Jev opens his mouth, takes him in deep again and sucks him dry until Andrea is shaking, slumped back against the tiled wall as if he could just fall asleep against it.  
  
“You're the best teammate,” Andrea murmurs, voice almost as thick and wrecked with lust as Jean-Éric’s own. “You want me to…” he gestures at Jev's cock, painfully hard and leaking in his underwear. Jev takes a deep breath, reaching for some toilet paper to wipe his face clean. “It won't take much,” he smiles, his predicament obvious enough that it would be impossible to go back out there to the table right now.

Andrea tucks himself back into his trousers, hauling Jean-Éric up from the floor, knees stinging and his suit somewhat more rumpled than it was earlier. “Look at you,” Andrea whispers, Jev’s blushes quickly turning to a bitten-back moan when Andrea moves to stand behind him, kissing his neck and slipping an arm around his waist, wrapping a hand around his leaking erection with no further preamble. Jean-Eric whines, leaning back against him, hips jerking forward as Andrea rubs through the slick wetness of his pre-come, teasingly thumbing over the tip of his cock. The sensation kicks his orgasm into force, his thighs shaking, a moan escaping his lips just as the door to the bathrooms creaks open. Andrea’s free hand flies up to cover Jean-Eric’s mouth, the sudden lack of oxygen causing his head to spin as he struggles to control his breathing, wanting nothing more than to be able to gasp and whine his way through the pleasure that teems through his body.  
  
Andrea’s hand is still working his cock, angling the lean of their bodies so that Jev’s come coats the tiles of the cubicle wall, painting the glittering black granite with swathes of pale white. Jev shudders through the sounds of their intruder pissing into the urinal, trying to stay silent as Andrea spreads his fingers to allow for a shaking breath. Jean-Éric relaxes into the heat of Andrea’s body as they silently wait to be left alone again, watching as his come slides artfully down the wall and wondering what Andrea would do if he ordered him to lick it up, if that would be taking it too far. He allows himself the briefest of moments to contemplate the arms around him belonging to a different teammate in another series, a fleeting fantasy, a letter of a name removed.  
  
“We have to head back,” Andrea says, breaking the spell, stepping back and giving Jev room to get himself together. After that it’s functional, righting of clothes and the somewhat distasteful business of Jev cleaning his own spunk from the tiles. Andrea giggles as he watches the wrinkle of Jean-Éric’s nose as he flings the bundled up tissue into the toilet.

There’s a tiny stain on the cuff of Andrea’s shirt and Jev watches as he scrubs at it, wetting the fabric with his tongue and glancing up at Jev with a secret smile before leaning in to kiss him softly. “I like doing this with you, Jev,” he says.

Jean-Éric is inclined to agree.

 


End file.
